St Margaret's
by Aegle
Summary: They’re standing in front of a 1976 Triumph that might have been silver once and is now more rust and pigeon excrement than paint.


_Author's Note: _Long vacation, eh? New story, same characters. Originally this fic was written for an R/T challenge back in February. I've since spruced it up and sent it to my wonderful, amazing beta, Spoons Are For Marmalade Skies (who paid me to write that last bit). As for summary, Tonks coaxes Remus into going down to the coast. They're still getting to know one another. They eat greasy food. Enjoy.

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St. Margaret's

"It really is quite a piece of shit." She laughs and then crinkles her nose. "Covered in it too. You'll want to give the door a good tug, there."

She's right. They're standing in front of a 1976 Triumph that might have been silver once and is now more rust and pigeon excrement than paint. He looks at her warily from over the hood, hand paused above the door handle.

"I do value my life, Tonks, shocking as it may seem."

"I'll keep that in mind." She gives the driver's side door a pat, adding, "She's old, but she'll run. Go on then."

Remus pulls on the door and settles into the passenger seat, his knees banging against the glove box. The interior smells faintly of Indian takeaway—malai kofta, he thinks. Tonks drops down next to him, glances over, and laughs.

"There should be a lever to your left."

The seat catches, however, and he's stuck with only a few more inches leg room.

"Where did you get this thing?" he asks, frowning.

"Deirdre Chickering, over in Wizengamot Registration Services. In exchange—" she starts the ignition and backs onto the street, where they find themselves tagging behind a man on a blue moped who's apparently decided to take a pleasure cruise in the East End—"for watching her cat. Stays atop the cupboards most of the time. Can't go to the fridge or he'll pounce my head."

She shifts gears and soon they're changing lanes, the rows of grey and brown flatsblurring together outside his window. He watches her as she checks the side mirror, her bottom lip sticking out.

"Care to tell me where we're going, exactly?"

"We, Remus, are going to Kent," she replies, eyes on the road. "I figured it was time to get you out of that place for a stretch. You're holed up in that study doing Christ knows what for all hours. Call it medical leave, if you'd like. I'd hate for you to lose more sanity than you already have."

"I'm touched, really."

"As you should be," she nods. Her hair is an electric red today, and with it pinned in all manner of directions she looks like a dahlia.

He stops. He has just compared Nymphadora Tonks to a flower. The A2 stretches out before them and he stares ahead, wondering if he's losing his mind. He thinks the notion is very probable. After all, he's sitting in a puttering little auto with a twenty-something woman bound for the Channel and he has absolutely no idea why. In fact, he can't remember how she'd managed to coerce him into it in the first place.

"Kent," he repeats, and she smiles.

"St. Margaret's. Ever been there?"

"No."

"Fair beach when the tourists aren't mucking about. Sometimes I've got to get out of London. Can't think here."

"Oh."

* * *

Tonks laughs, then reaches over and pats his thigh. "Cheer up, old man. I promise I won't tell anyone if you have a bit of fun."

They've gotten lunch from a seaside stand and now she sits, staring out to the green-gray water and rolling a smooth black pebble back and forth between her palms. Her toenails are painted blue, and they look out of place on the rocks that litter the water front. He stares at her feet—pale and slightly too big for her body—and briefly, he has the urge to touch them, then shakes it off, wondering where the hell this has come from.

"Bet you've never spent an afternoon with a girl who had toes like these, eh?" she asks, wiggling them. Remus attempts to direct his gaze nonchalantly out to sea. She smiles. "You do that more often that you realize."

He fishes for a witty response and finds none. She's stringing him out again. A girl this young shouldn't make him nervous. It's absurd. But so, he figures, is sitting on a windy beach with rocks digging into his ass, wanting to touch someone's feet.

"It's all right," she continues. "I've grown used to spending my time in the company of seedy types. Government job. Can't avoid it."

"Nymphadora-"

"I'm joking, Remus." Tonks chews thoughtfully on a chip. She squints at him from beneath a cupped hand. Her face is pink and wind-burned. "Are you? The seedy type, that is?"

"More than you'd think," he grunts, and she laughs. It's a hard, incredulous sound.

"Engaging in immoral activities and leaving women like some sleeping Ariadne. I can't say I see it."

"Give it time."

"Christ, are you _smiling_?"

He stretches his legs out, wincing a bit at the stiffness in them. The pebbles are warm, though, and he leans back on his elbows, momentarily content. Somewhere papers are collecting dust on a heavy desk and Sirius is probably throwing bottles at the bedroom wall for entertainment but right now he simply wants to close his eyes and let the guilt catch up to him later.

Tonks' elbow brushes against him, but he doesn't tense and she doesn't apologize. Their crumbling formality is something he's been mulling over, and undoubtedly when he retreats into his room tonight this simple accident will be replaying in his head.

Something cool and wet splashes on the bridge of his nose. It's starting to rain. Water drops onto her knee and makes a small, dark patch on her jeans. Another lands on his cheek.

She examines the remainder of the cod in her lap, the half-eaten and greasy piles of potato that have tumbled out of the wax paper, bits scattered on the black stones beneath her legs. She sighs. "Ready to call it a day?"

* * *

Tonks reaches across his lap to open the glove box when they stop a few blocks from Number Twelve, and he smells salt water and the remnants of some spiced perfume.

"Brought this from the flat. Give it to Sirius, will you?"

He studies the tattered paperback she's holding. "Ian Fleming?"

"The man's literary tastes are unparalleled, what can I say?"

Remus laughs, and then feels his face go slack as she leans over and kisses his cheek. The motion is ill-planned, and her mouth lands just in front of his ear. He doesn't care. He's too caught up in the sensation of her lips pressed against his skin.

When Tonks pulls away her features are unreadable. She settles her hands on the steering wheel, looking ahead. "Next meeting then."

The door closes and the car is silent, save for the hum of the engine. Tonks lets out a breath and bites her lower lip. She watches briefly as he walks down the pavement, and then wrapping small fingers around the gear stick, drives home.


End file.
